


The Fury

by Vae



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Chicago - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Multi, speakeasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2008-01-06
Updated: 2009-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just another night in the club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [](http://fan-elune.livejournal.com/profile)[**fan_elune**](http://fan-elune.livejournal.com/), not to mention thank her hugely. Also thanks to [](http://lvs2read.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lvs2read.livejournal.com/)**lvs2read** for beta services. I've never written RPS AU before, but this notion ate at me until I wrote it. Those who RP with me will recognise a lot of these characters - if you've any objection to yours being used, shout up, and I'll take this down. Con-crit welcome, comments loved.

September 1926, Towertown, Chicago. It's raining, sheets of heavy droplets picked out milky white in the flickering shimmer of the streetlamps. You know, there are folk who believe streetlighting encourages immorality? I guess it depends on your interpretation of immorality, but around here, there's enough evidence they could be right.

Somewhere over the other side of town, a police siren wails like a spoiled brat. They don't come this side of town. We're up on our payments; the boss takes care of that.

It rains a lot here. Gets down your collar, settles cold and heavy on your neck, splashes up to soil your spats, doesn't do a damn thing to clean things up. We're dirty through and through, down to the soul, and I like it that way. This is the world I live in.

Welcome to The Fury.

You won't find us unless you're looking, and you won't be looking unless someone's told you where to look. Down one of the back alleys, there's a door, plain and anonymous. Knock right, speak the right words, and Steve'll let you in, out of the rain and into the tiny hallway. There's a hat check, narrow corridor, couple of gas lamps to show your way through to the door at the far end.

The dancehall's bigger than you'd expect from the outside. They're still setting up for the night ahead. Morena's circling the tables and Stephen's ...Christ, if he polishes those glasses any more he'll wear through them. Jewel's lighting up again, curl of smoke winding up from the fresh cigarette lodged in her holder, new set of sparklers shining brighter than the flare of the match. Seems she's still got our resident tame copper firmly wrapped around her finger, and Mr. Mortensen's not the type to object to seeing his cash finding its way back home.

Gordon's tuning up the band as I head past, up the stairs at the back. Time to check in for work, catch up on the latest, which means finding the office and Mr. Mortensen, and with any luck...yeah. Oh, yeah, Mr. Gill. Mr. Mortensen's the boss here and there's things I do to keep my job, if you follow me, but Scott's mine, or more accurately, I'm his. God knows how an Englishman ended up out here in partnership with Mr. Mortensen, but he's here, and hell if I'm ever gonna ask Scott anything he's not volunteering. We've got an understanding, sure, but I know damn well when to keep my head down and my mouth shut. Wouldn't still be here if I didn't, no matter what. Mr. Gill's never gonna muddle sentiment with business. That's what keeps us all _in_ business.

There's a third man with them tonight, new guy. Stranger to me, at least, though it looks like Scott knows him well. Stunning kid, sharp suit, pretty mouth, cold eyes, nice ass, not too tall. Neat package all around, but considering the company he's keeping, off-limits unless I get told contrary. No pissing in the boss's pond, and definitely no screwing the boss's pet. Mr. Mortensen's got different rules than Scott. Not that I'm a pet, sure as hell earn my keep off my knees as well as on them or my back, but I don't kid myself it's not a factor.

Hanging my hat on the stand and shrugging my raincoat off, I stand before the desk, hands clasped loosely behind me. Mr. Mortensen's in his usual chair; Scott's on the couch with the stranger, but he's looking at me. "Mr. Mortensen, sir. Half an hour?"

"Half an hour, John." He grins at me. Whoever this guy is, he's not a threat to the business. "How's it looking?"

I let myself grin right back. "We'll be ready, sir. Jewel's new ice?"

"Sergeant Fillion." There's a certain satisfaction in Scott's voice as he stands, bringing the stranger with him. "Sean, John's going to be taking care of you tonight. John, Sean and I go way back. Anything he wants, is that clear?"

Clear as day, and no kind of hardship. "Yes, sir, Mr. Gill."

Scott laughs, and kisses me. Slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that promises enough to set my heart pounding and my dick hard in a New York second. The fact that Scott's promises are closer to threats always adds a kick for me - that and the easy way he claims me. Safe environment, sure, but the risk still gets me going. And he knows that.

When he stops, I know damn well how I look to the rest of them. Just a touch dizzy, flushed, blinking to try and shift my focus back to work. Which is fucking next-door to impossible with Scott looking at me that way, his thumb brushing over my lips. "Check," he whispers, pressing harder for an instant before letting go, and I can't help it. I shiver. Outward expression of the intensity of the need he brings out in me.

I've got a preference for cash, but I'm not gonna argue the toss.

The quiet chuckle's unfamiliar, which means it must be the new guy - Sean. Mr. Mortensen's looking at me in a way that means I'm gonna be back up here on my break if Orli's busy. "Beat it, John," he says, soft and hard. "Get Sean settled, open her up. We'll be down later."

With a nod, I hold the door for Sean. I don't question Mr. Mortensen. Nobody questions Mr. Mortensen. At least, not twice.

Back down in the hall, Billie Joe's warming up, or could be showing off. Nice kid, blows a horn like jazz shacked up with rhythm in his soul and had little riff babies, got a thing going with the pianist that really fucking upset the bassist before the drummer set in. We're a screwed up set, but it works. Everyone's got dirt on everyone else, and there's not one of us dares spill it for what the rest have got on us. Circle blackmail. Gotta love this place.

We're pretty much set for the night. Lamps turned down low in wall sconces, and David's hauling the chandeliers up over the dance floor. Everything gleams, soft and inviting. Polished wood floor, bar, bentwood chairs, shining brass and glass over by the bar, even the damn tablecloths glow like there's phosphorous in the laundry soap. No silverware - we don't run to food at this place. Anyone brings a knife in here, we're not liable for what they do with it. If the cops get the notion we're supplying them, though...there's a lesson been learned the hard way in a few places around here.

The kids are gathered around the bar. Jewel's leaning back against Morena, who's got Jewel's cigarette holder drooping from her scarlet lips as she laughs at one of Stephen's stories. Orlando's tangled up with Jensen somehow, whispered conversation of their own going on. I'll say this much for Mr. Mortensen, he sure does hire on the tasty. Jewel's a tiny thing, but she's got legs that go on forever from under the shortest skirt this side of Lake Michigan. Morena's a spic, all dark and sultry against Jewel's fairer prettiness. Orli's Irish to the bone, black hair and milk white skin, huge gray eyes and a mouth way too innocent for some of the things it's done and said. Wrapped around him, Jensen's pure Texas, tan and freckles and loose, long limbs, sin in every movement. Best shot in five states. By contrast, David's all cheekbones and angles, sharp and hard, wears pinstripe like he's a fashion-plate.

Then there's me. Not gonna dwell, and I've got a few years on most of that crowd, but I hold my own well enough. Through on the door, Steve fits in just fine, too.

"What's your pleasure, Sean?" I flick him a grin, kisses exchanged with all the kids and then Stephen over the bar. "Whiskey, cocktail, boys, girls...you name it, we got it." When Mr. Gill says 'anything', he damn well means it.

Sean's gaze skips over the kids and comes to rest on me, slow, predatory smile stretching his lips. Jesus, no wonder Scott's kept in touch. This boy's got the devil dancing in his eyes. "Find me something with a good vintage."

Stephen's already opening a bottle of champagne. Matching Sean's smile, I reach across the bar for a couple of flutes and take them across to one of our best tables. It's about halfway down the hall; far enough from the band to get a decent balance, close enough to hear whoever's singing. Clear access to the dancefloor, and prime position for the staff to notice when glasses are empty.

Yeah, glasses. Go to a blind pig or some other dive, you'll find them serving moonshine whiskey or bathtub gin in cracked teacups. We're better than that. Scott makes sure the right people are kept sweet. Half the Chicago police department drink here, The Fury's a top-notch joint. Specialist, too, which you've maybe noticed. Drinking alcohol's not the only illegal activity goes on here.

Holding a chair out for Sean gives me a great chance to watch him move. He's all sinuous grace, like some kind of cat. Makes me wonder how he purrs. Not that I've time to find out now, filling both glasses and handing one to him as he sits down, tilting the other slightly in a toast. "Old friends and new acquaintances."

He nods, sips, and returns the toast. "Partnership."

Now, there's an intriguing concept. One I'll drink to, setting the glass down on the table and moving away with a murmured explanation about work to take the drink out of Jewel's hand, detaching her from Morena and installing Orli on the stool in her place.

"Okay, kids, you know the drill. Anyone sees Joe, you come find me. Jensen, watch out for Chris, Mr. Mortensen's got suspicions about his luck lately. Don't make a move unless you can catch him at it. Everyone, the swell at table nine's a personal friend of Mr. Gill. His tab's on the house, he gets whatever he wants. If you can't get it for him, come find me, he's my charge. Any trouble with anything else, Davy's your first port of call." Another quick scan of the hall shows me Gordon perched on a stool, one heel resting against the leg, the band ready and waiting. "Knock 'em dead. Jen, go check Steve's ready, we're good to go." Or nearly.

Jewel's about to breeze past me when I catch her arm, drawing her back towards the bar. Stephen's finally stopped polishing glasses, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see the signs of one of his famous martinis being mixed. Two. Lowering my voice, I tighten my grip on Jewel as she glares at me. "Not so fast, baby. Gimme the compact."

"Need to powder your nose, John?" she coos, sweet as honey.

I've seen the act before. "Save the flimflam for the sergeant, doll. I need you _not_ to powder your nose until you've done your set. Gimme the compact."

A scowl, and a pout, and she hands it over. Flicking it open confirms my suspicions of the contents, and I slide it across the bar to Stephen. "Keep it until Fillion's made himself scarce, or her set finishes. Whatever's last."

"Absolutely, sir." The compact disappears. Stephen's a hell of a lot more than a bartender, but he's a hell of a bartender besides.

Jewel bares her teeth in the semblance of a smile, and sneaks one of the cocktails as she flounces off towards the band. The other's mine.

Doors open, and our first owls float through the door. It's showtime.

 _Cast in order of appearance:_  
John Barrowman  
Steve Carlson  
Morena Baccarin  
Stephen Fry  
Jewel Staite  
Viggo Mortensen  
Sting  
Scott Gill  
Sean Maher  
Billie Joe Armstrong  
David Tennant  
Orlando Bloom  
Jensen Ackles  



	2. Chapter 2

There's no neat way to describe the crowd we get in here, despite what the local rag says about degenerates. They're from all walks of life. Young, old, men, women, flashy or plain, the one thing they've got in common is enough money to lose, and enough brains not to sell us out. Some of them come to drink, some to dance. Some of them just want to sit and listen to Billie Joe blow his horn, some of them want to hear Jewel sing. We've got the gamblers, the idlers, the seducers, the players, the dilettantes, a rat or two...sooner or later, they make it through our doors. We're safe. For them, anyway, mostly. Our hooch isn't gonna send them blind or leave them cold in an alley. The only risk to their purse or jewelry comes from the cards and dice, and they're not gonna get arrested for anything they do here, long as they don't go against Mr. Gill or Mr. Mortensen. The juice is good, the powder's pure, the music's got a buzz and no one's ever waiting for a dance partner. Even the streets round here are clean.

Keep them happy, keep them coming, keep us in business. So we fleece them a little on the prices. You get what you pay for.

Gordon's leading something sweet and low as we fill up. No point in the band using up all their energy until we've got enough flappers to fill the floor. Jewel's got a pretty enough voice, crooning away at something soft. Her admirer's already got the closest table to her stool, and she's shooting him coy looks under kohl-lined lashes. Him or his rookie, can't tell which, and that girl'd better keep her focus on the sergeant where it belongs, or she's gonna be in trouble. That's Sergeant Nathan Fillion, in here every night, casting cow-eyes in her direction. Half the sweeteners Mr. Mortensen sends his way end up shining round her pretty neck or wrist - and back in his safe. One way to save the sergeant having to explain to his wife where the extra cash is coming from, I guess.

The kid's a recent addition. Gonna need to get the dirt on him.

Next table along, a couple of guys who've been coming here since we re-opened. Johnny's batshit crazy, freelancer. Now and again Mr. Gill has work for him. I don't ask. The gent next to him, long fingers idly tapping a rhythm on the tabletop, is as big a contrast as you could wish. Self-contained, well-mannered, spends most of his time listening to Jewel. Still, there's something about him. Instinct says I don't want to cross the guy.

Then there's our Eva. Now, there's a lady with real class - the kind Jewel wants too hard to ever reach it, but Eva's got in spades. Half her time at the tables, half on the dance floor, she's Orli's favorite partner. She comes in here alone, leaves the same way, never wants for company in between. With that face, that figure, and that smile, it doesn't surprise me one bit.

The gaming tables sit over near the bar. Anyone wants to swap a few Gs, that's their business, but they do it using our dice or our cards. Keeps the body count down that way. Folk looking for deeper play go elsewhere to get their pockets lightened by the professionals. There's already a few guys shooting craps, and...yeah. One table with a dude flicking through a deck that doesn't look like one of the decks Stephen provides. Hair long enough to mark him out, smile of an angel who's found sin and chosen it as a career move. Get close enough and you'll hear the lazy sunshine in his voice, twin to Jensen's drawl. Christian. Quick worker, that man, he's already found himself a mark, some goofy giant of a kid with a suit looks like he ordered it from a catalog don't make them quite big enough.

Not my concern. Jensen's got a weather-eye on Chris tonight, cigarette lodged between his teeth as he deals himself in on the game. Time for me to move on. The music's picked up, one of the new tracks - Gershwin. Lively pace, not sure it'll catch on as a dance track, but it's tempting a few ambitious hoofers to the floor. Morena's found her first partner of the night, a skinny blond with a sense of rhythm _I'd_ definitely call fascinating.

Sean's still alone, small twist of amusement curving his mouth as he watches the dancers, one slender finger stroking slow lines along the stem of his glass. Sliding into the empty seat next to him, I lean in to whisper in his ear, close enough to smell the subtle musk of his cologne. "Anything take your fancy?"

The only answer I get is a wicked glance that sets my toes curling. Christ, I'd love to do him myself. Maybe later, when the crowd's settled in. Shouldn't be too long now, with Orli leading Eva onto the floor and hooking an arm around her waist, bringing out the rich melody of her laugh. Eva could fill a dance floor on her own, but with Orlando matching her, it's only gonna take seconds, and that means I've other tasks to do.

Can't let Jewel sing herself hoarse.

I can still feel Sean's gaze on me, all the invitation I need when I look back and meet his eyes, see the desire licking flames to dance in the dark of blown pupils. "Anything you want, Mr. Maher." It's not a question, not this time, just confirmation of exactly what's on offer - anything. "What's your pleasure?"

His smile grows, slow as the bubbles rise in champagne and twice as intoxicating. "You mean you've not guessed yet?"

Fuck. Oh, _fuck_ , yeah, I've guessed. There's no mistaking it, but I can't right now, too many other things to keep tabs on. Like the new arrivals over by the main doors, regulars, striking couple, and I've got to go make them welcome, got to help Jewel out, make sure Jensen's got everything under control. Except, Christ, that's pretty definitely Sean's foot working its way up my leg, smooth slide of polished leather against my pants, and my body doesn't give a flying fuck for work between that touch and the intent expression on Sean's face. "Check," I promise, lifting my glass to take a sip. "Twenty minutes, I'm all yours."

"You already are," he murmurs, and he's so damn right, at least for tonight, for as long as he wants. Scott's given me over.

"Twenty minutes," I repeat, trying and nearly succeeding to keep the breathlessness out of my voice, covering it with another mouthful of martini when he chuckles, dark and full.

A nod, and I'm on the move, grin stretching my lips as much at that promise as at the sight of Alan and Paul. They can believe it's all for them. They're good customers. Never a hint of trouble, get themselves out of the way of any trouble that finds us, keep on coming back. Tonight, there's a glow about them. Alan's hair's a little rough, Paul's eyes a little bright, and Paul's hand is set in the small of Alan's back. Paul's got a certain amount of history tailing him, but it's Alan's ass that gets bitten. Maybe he likes it that way.

They're regular enough to have a 'usual' table, close to the bar. Sometimes Paul makes the round of the tables, sometimes Alan persuades him onto the dancefloor, and that's a sight to see. Paul's grace seems to abandon him when he dances, long limbs flying in a Charleston, but anyone can tell he's having a high old time. It makes Alan happy, and they make each other happy. It's kind of sweet, and sweet's in short supply around here. You know. Sweet in that hot kind of way.

I'm not the only one to have noticed their arrival. By the time we arrive at their table, there's a candle flickering away in the center, a matched pair of bourbon glasses, and someone's added a single white rosebud. My money's on Morena. Alan's laughing as he fixes it to Paul's lapel, and I leave them to it. Those two don't have eyes for anyone but each other tonight, and besides, duty calls. More new arrivals.

New in more than one sense of the word. This kid's never been to The Fury before, I know that for definite. There's no way I could forget this one, duded up in a full-length raccoon coat, fedora tipped so low over his face that he's relying on the doll on his arm to guide him down the stairs. New. So fucking green I can smell it, but flush, or Billie wouldn't be clinging to him so hard. Billie #2, that is. Working girl, she brings her johns here after the first few appointments, when they're willing to let her out for a few hours. Usually it's not a problem, but this one's trouble. His shoes are so new the patent leather squeaks with each step, and he's damn close to setting his own hat on fire with his cigar.

The accident's averted when Billie reaches over to steal the hat in question. It looks better on her; most things would. Still, with the fedora gone, I get a closer look at our greenie. Or kind of. The fact that he's wearing shades as well marks him out as an oil can or a danger. I'd bet hard cash that this guy doesn't have enough brains to rub together to qualify as any kind of danger, but everyone's going to have an eye on any newcomer.

"Take your coat, sir?" I offer with a grin, and find myself with an armful of Billie before he can respond.

She gifts me with a loud lipstick smear on each cheek and a delighted squeal. "John, darling! You're here tonight?"

"Every night, kitten." Which she knows damn well, often as she's here. Means she's trying to play someone. I just hope it's not me. She's straight as a corkscrew, but I've got a little soft spot left in my heart for Billie. "Who's your friend?"

Beaded jewelry rattles as she re-attaches herself to his raccoon-furred sleeve. "Jonathan, sugar, this is John."

Shaded eyes turn in my direction. I fucking hate not being able to see a guy's eyes when he's facing me. Another stroke in the 'oil can' column.

"And," Billie continues, with a bright smile that shows too many teeth to be real, "John, this is my new patron, Jonathan Woodward."

"Jonathan M Woodward," corrects the four-flusher, stressing the initial like he's got copyright on the alphabet. He shrugs her off, and then the coat, flinging it in my direction. Good job I've had plenty of practice at catching clothing. No matter how clean our floor is, this is the kind of flat wheeler to charge us for cleaning if I let his fur drop.

Patron. Shit, that means she's going to be bringing him back again. I don't regret for a second that I don't have a free hand to offer for shaking.

Forcing a smile that feels fake even to me, I adjust the coat over my arm. "Welcome to The Fury, Mr. M." The contraction's designed to annoy, but it's only the faintest tightening of his jaw that lets me know I've hit the mark. Gonna have to try harder. "Billie, why don't you show Mr. M to a table near the bar, tell Stephen I said the first one's on the house?" It's as far as I can politely put him from the band - and, not so coincidentally, from Sean.

Skin prickles between my shoulderblades as I turn my back on them to take the coat through. There's something off about this one, second risk of the night and I'm definitely gonna need more on Mr. M. Good job Scott's got someone lined up to get hold of that. A someone who's gassing with Steve rather than coming into the main hall. Yeah, that's pretty standard for him.

I hand the fur over to Steve, grinning at the expression on his face that pretty much sits cozy with my own opinion of the thing, and sling an arm around the shoulders of our resident rat. "Seth, old buddy, old pal!" I turn the grin on him, lifting off his hat with my free hand and tossing it across to Steve, who settles it neatly over his face, leaning back in his chair. Turning a blind eye...good man, and definitely a wise move.

“John," he returns, wariness behind his eyes, and the easy grin that mirrors mine. He pushes away from the counter, gifting me a hug that from the outside looks just as genuine as Billie's did, but there's less warmth behind it. Something's eating Seth, and it tells. This guy never plays poker. Shit, I'd steer him away from the tables if I ever saw him trying. No point letting him get in hock to someone not on staff. Split loyalties aren't a good plan. "Got a moment?"

Yeah, I've got a moment. I'm looking for him, he's looking for me, and ain't that just pure serendipity? "For you?" My grin spreads. Anyone watching - anyone who don't know to read deeper than the surface - is gonna think I'm just laying it on thick for a good customer. "Always. Drink?"

"Yeah." He looks at me, curve of lips slightly too set to believe. "You're gonna need one."

Not the kind of news I really want to hear tonight, between Chris, Sean, and Mr. M, but you roll with it, right? Or I do. Survival technique. "Gonna scare me, you talk that way," I kid lightly. "Come into my parlor."

Now, I don't rate an office. Not officially. See, officially, I'm a performer, and that means all I get is a dressing room - but I'm top of the bill. Means I get my _own_ dressing room, means there's a private shower. Means there are bolts on the inside of the door, and a lock that Mr. Gill holds the spare key to. Security's got a set, too, but if things get that bad, they're not gonna futz around with locks. The whole damn door comes down.

 

Performer? Yeah. Some of the private showings can get kind of active.

Tonight, though, my dressing room's got another use. Private. Means I can sift through whatever Seth's got for me, feed it to the right ears. Keep it from the wrong ones. Closing the door, I slide the bolts across - just middle and bottom, no way Seth's ever going to reach the top one, and I'm not trapping him in. We can get out, either of us. No one else gets in.

I light up a fresh cigarette, sliding my case across the table to Seth, and drape myself over the couch. Habit. Make a display of it. "You wanna go first?"

He looks at me, snorts, and taps out a cigarette. "Thought you said something about a drink, gunsel?"

That kind of mood, huh? Drink it is. Standing up, cigarette held loosely between my lips, I go over to my dressing table, pulling the bottle of bourbon from the bottom drawer, and sloshing a generous amount into one glass, less in another. The fuller one's for Seth. Me, I don't like losing my edge. Hooch or snow, it's not my style, except in specialized circumstances. "Drink," I say shortly, pushing the glass into his hand, and sitting down again. Less ostentatious, this time. One mask dropping, here's another. "Spill it."

There's a moment when I'm wondering if he's going to spill the bourbon, just to be contrarywise, but thank Christ, Seth's not the type to waste good juice. Instead, he takes a hefty swallow, lights up, and straddles a chair, leaning folded arms on the back when he looks at me. "Joe's in town."

Jesus, Mary and all the saints, he was right about that drink. My grip tightens, and I lift the cigarette from my mouth, blowing smoke away from him. "Towertown?"

"Got it in one." He's less on the letting go than I am. His cigarette bobs as he talks, drooping from the corner of his mouth, and stays put even when he drinks, glass pushing it at an impossible angle. "Scuttlebutt's got him pointed this way. In company."

Company's rarely good news. Joe on his own, he's a skinny feller. Tough talker, not much of a brawler. Even I can take him, long as he doesn't get chance to go for his knife. Long as I get a chance to go for mine. But Joe in company spins the kind of tales brings him noisy backup. "How many?"

Seth shrugs, turning the glass in his hands. "Sounds like two, could be three. Big guy with him. Tall as Jensen, built like two of him. Packing hefty hardware."

Just the kind of company sounds designed to cause a real lively disruption the night Mr. Gill's entertaining company. Kind of disruption I've got to head off. There's a roll of lettuce in that drawer along with the hooch, always. It's known. It's also known that taking more than your share means you wind up a little shorter. Couple of feet shorter, sometimes, straight off the top. Seth's going to get a share of that roll, but not yet. "Got it. We've got a new kid in, too. Gonna need all you got on him."

Christ knows how Seth's juggling cigarette, glass, notepad and pen, but he's doing it, and nothing's set down. "Gimme."

"Woodward." I'm watching him, closer than it looks. Then again, Seth's bright enough to pick up on that. "Jonathan M. Emphasis on the M. Billie brought him along."

"Real sweet lady," he observes, chewing on his cigarette. Notebook's flipped closed, pen slid away somewhere, and he's finally lifting that cig free of his mouth to tap ash free into the tray on the table between us. "He's a nobody. No count. Came into money couple months back."

Nobody don't mean no trouble, I know that one. "From?"

Seth shrugs, and lodges the cigarette back in his mouth. "No one knows." Then he grins, sharp and sudden. Like a wolf baring its teeth in the darkness. "Yet."

That's the word I'm waiting for. The one that gets me up from the couch and over to the drawer, peeling off a couple Cs for the hound. He's earned it, and he's going to earn more. Plus, keeps him writing up sweet about the club. "I'll pass it on. You sticking around some?"

Like there's any chance he wouldn't. Looks like being a lively night.

"I'm sticking around," he agrees, knocking back the rest of his drink in one big gulp, gasping against the kick and shaking his head. "Gonna take my crack at Jonathan M."

I've still not touched my drink, but I'm sure as hell going to. Small sip to get the heat warming around my mouth, swallow to feel the burn, and I slide the bolts back. "Tell Stephen John says run a tab."

Not many folks get that. Seth's practically staff, and Seth's press. Seth gets a tab. Seth _pays_ his tab.

He pulls his jacket straight, nods. Looks at me. "Tread careful, John."

"Always do," I return, and we're back out in the dark corridors of backstage, heading towards the lights and noise of the hall.

 

_Cast in order of appearance or mention:  
John Barrowman  
Billie Joe Armstrong  
Jewel Staite  
Scott Gill  
Viggo Mortensen  
Sting  
Nathan Fillion  
Matt Anderson  
Johnny Depp  
Rupert Everett  
Eva Green  
Orlando Bloom  
Christian Kane  
Stephen Fry  
Jensen Ackles  
Morena Baccarin  
Sean Maher  
Alan Tudyk  
Paul Bettany  
Jonathan M Woodward  
Billie Piper  
Steve Carlson  
Seth Green  
Joe Gordon-Levitt  
_


End file.
